


Crimson Neon

by xanthippe74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cooking, Drinking, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gay Harry Potter, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Homesickness, Loneliness, M/M, Neighbors, New York City, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Smell, TasteofSmut 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25445140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanthippe74/pseuds/xanthippe74
Summary: Winter, 1999. Harry thought going to New York would help him get his head on straight, but all he has to show for it are sore feet and a fridge full of takeaway containers. And now he’s homesick on top of everything else. It doesn’t help that his mysterious neighbour in 2C keeps cooking dishes that remind Harry of home and all the people he lost or left behind.The familiar face behind the door of 2C is only the first surprise. As the bleak winter eases into spring, Harry discovers that happiness isn’t as out of reach as he thought… as long as he can find a way to hold onto it.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 82
Kudos: 441
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	Crimson Neon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvAEleanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvAEleanor/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For EvAEleanor and unicorninthelibrary: I hope you enjoy what I cooked up from your lovely prompt. With many thanks to the fest mods for their patience and encouragement, [alwaysparis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysparis/pseuds/alwaysparis/works) for the meticulous beta work, and [MalenkayaCherepakha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalenkayaCherepakha/pseuds/MalenkayaCherepakha) for saving me from my Americanisms, once again. And a special shoutout to my fellow sprinters on the Drarry Discord, who helped me crank this baby out, 20 minutes at a time. I’m passing around virtual cigars to all of you.
> 
> The title of the story is modified from [“Neon Crimson”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYyikzGSDsU) by The Paper Kites. It’s a quiet, gorgeous song about being far from home in Manhattan, and I highly recommend giving it a listen. I discovered it as I was writing my then-unnamed fic, and the lyrics fit so perfectly that I had to find my title there.

It’s roast turkey the first time.

As soon as Harry reaches the top of the first flight of stairs, the aroma hits him like a Quaffle to the stomach, so strong that it covers the paint and musty carpet smells of the corridor. He grips the bannister, forgetting his eagerness to get to his flat and take off his wet trainers and socks. Forgetting his sore feet and his heavy heart.

Harry can almost taste the turkey’s crisp skin, the tender meat dripping with rich gravy, the roast potatoes. Closing his eyes, he remembers his first Christmas at Hogwarts.

A thick, emerald-green jumper, made just for him; Ron’s bright blue eyes while they faced each other over a chess board; the Great Hall, lavishly decorated, echoing with the sounds of laughter and Christmas crackers; the grinning faces of the twins.

It’s almost too much to bear. Harry pushes away the memory and hurries up the rest of the stairs to his flat.

No, _apartment_.

This is New York City. The language is the same, but the words are different. He’s renting a furnished apartment in a narrow, four-storey building on the West Side of Manhattan. He’s not exactly a tourist and certainly not a resident.

He’s a runaway.

Harry tosses his wet socks down the hall in the direction of his bedroom and lies on the sofa. He needs to buy a blanket or a throw. There are no small comforts, no homey touches here. Just walls and carpets the colour of porridge and furniture that feels like it was chosen for durability rather than comfort.

It’s almost five o’clock, according to Harry’s watch, and it’s already dark, as it would be in London at this time of day. But somehow the January nights here feel different. Colder, certainly. There are jagged mounds of solid grey ice lining the pavements, the last remnants of a snowstorm that happened sometime before Harry arrived. The rain that pelted him on the walk home from the Tube—no, _subway_ —station felt like tiny pellets of ice against his bare face, but melted into his shoes and coat as soon as it touched them.

Harry shivers. His Warming Charms are shit and there’s no way to control the temperature in this place. He’ll just have to wait until he hears the telltale whistle and clank of steam pushing through the cast iron radiators. Tea would be a good idea, as would heating up the leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator, if he could muster the energy. He hasn’t eaten anything today besides a cheese danish from a coffee shop near the Museum of Modern Art (his destination for the day), and an overpriced turkey sandwich from the museum cafe.

He spent the day wandering the labyrinth of small rooms, dodging groups of No-Maj schoolchildren ( _don’t say Muggle_ , his new landlady chided him). It was easy to spot the ones who go to the posh schools by their expensive-looking uniforms and stylish haircuts. Some of them are only a few years younger than him, and Harry resents them bitterly for their carefree smiles and blithe self-absorption.

When they’re eighteen-and-a-half, they won’t be so filled with bottled-up grief and misery that it feels like they’re fracturing from the inside out. Like they’ll either crumble to dust or explode. They won’t need to run away before they ruin everything that matters in their lives.

Harry pushes himself upright and runs a hand over his face, beneath his glasses. It might be his imagination, but he thinks he can still smell the turkey. He wishes whoever’s cooking it would just open a bloody window instead of inflicting their cooking smells on the entire building.

Maybe the bedroom will be better. Harry shucks off his damp jeans, opens the window, and climbs under the duvet. He’s exhausted from walking all day. Going out to a bar or a club tonight, which was his original plan, is out of the question. Leftover takeaway (no, _takeout_ ) and some TV after his nap sound just fine. There’ll be other Saturday nights. The city will still be here.

And so will Harry. He’s not going anywhere, either.

* * *

The following Saturday, it’s chicken and ham pie.

It takes a couple of minutes for Harry to put his finger on it. He lingers in the hallway, near the door marked “2C” in tarnished brass, parsing the aroma into its components of pastry and meats. There are faint sounds coming from within the apartment—the clatter of cutlery, the dull impact of a plate set on a wooden table. No voices, though.

A memory tugs at Harry’s mind. He can almost see his own hands taking a plate, heavy with a generous slice of pie, from someone. And they’re outdoors.

Ah, that’s it. The garden of the Burrow, the summer before his fourth year at Hogwarts. The entire family was home. Harry met Bill and Charlie for the first time (Merlin, he was so stupid. It took him years to figure out why he couldn’t stop looking at them). Harry recalls the chatter about the Quidditch World Cup and his own amusement at the sight of Crookshanks chasing the garden gnomes. Despite his concern about Sirius and his scar hurting, Harry remembers being happy.

God, it’s hard to remember that feeling now. It’s been snuffed out of him, like a candle in a closed jar once it ran out of air.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs above him pulls Harry back into the present. An elderly man whose name eludes him (one syllable, starts with C maybe?) turns the corner and spots Harry. They’ve met once or twice, coming and going. He’s a chatty bloke. Harry reckons he can use the Indian food he’s carrying as an excuse to get away, if he needs to.

“Hullo,” Harry says, stepping to the side to allow him (Cliff? Clay?) to pass.

“Hello, that smells good,” the old man says with a crooked smile.

“Chicken and ham pie, I think.”

The man laughs and points at the plastic bag hanging from Harry’s hand. “You not sure? Is it a surprise or somethin’?”

“Oh, I thought you meant whatever they’re cooking in there.” Harry looks over his shoulder at the door of 2C. “It’s an English dish.”

“That’s no surprise. He’s another English guy, like you. Not as friendly as you are, though,” he says with a wink. “He looks like he walks around with a stick up his fancy ass.”

Harry’s faintly horrified to hear a man who must be close to eighty speak like that. Then what Carl (or maybe it’s Curt) just said sinks in.

_Another English guy_.

Fuck. The last thing he wants is to be recognised here. He thought New York would be far enough. Maybe it wasn’t.

“Has he, er, lived here a long time?” Harry asks, hoping that his identity won’t be of interest to someone who left England a long time ago.

The old man leans on the bannister that runs along one side of the corridor, above the stairs. “Nope, just came from England last fall, I think. I remember because he had people deliverin’ furniture almost every day for the first couple weeks, and they tracked in wet leaves, all up the stairs.” He pauses to wheeze a scornful laugh. “Told me to use my wand to clean ‘em up, if I didn’t like it. Probably one of those trust fund kids. Spoiled rotten.”

Harry closes his eyes and tries to swallow the flutter of panic in his throat. He’s going to have to be more careful now when he leaves his flat. Maybe leaving his invisibility cloak in London was a bad idea after all. Maybe he should have asked the estate agent when he looked at this place if there were any British tenants here. It was stupid of him to not to think of it.

“Er, I’m going to go eat this now before it gets cold. Have a good day… sir.” Harry starts towards the stairs, then calls over his shoulder, “Be careful, it’s a bit slippery out there.”

“Never let the cold weather stop me!” the old man chuckles with a wave. “See y’around!”

When Harry gets to his flat, he sets the bag of food in the kitchen and stares at it. His appetite has completely abandoned him. He wonders if he should start buying more groceries instead of picking up takeaway every day, but the thought of cooking makes his stomach twist.

Harry wanders into the sitting room and stands in front of the windows. The room looks out over the street, which is so narrow that the only things to see are the almost identical buildings on the other side and the silhouettes of the bare treetops in between. Some of the windows are lit, but the rooms and people inside are hidden by curtains. Harry turns away before long.

Honestly, standing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest would feel less lonely than living in this city, he thinks.

Just a little while ago, when he was approaching the Indian place where he was picking up his dinner, some arsehole shoved him in the back. Harry had stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, his heart leaping in fear, because the blinking neon sign in the window, blurred by the wet lenses of his glasses, looked like the red flash of a Stunning Spell. The stranger’s hand between his shoulder blades jerked Harry back to reality, and he forced his legs to keep walking toward the restaurant.

Harry returns to the kitchen and spoons some Tikka Masala and rice onto a plate. He knows he’s probably just going to pick at it for a while, then put it in the fridge with the three other kinds of leftovers in there. Throwing away perfectly good food is unthinkable, even if it means eating the same thing for three days in a row. At least he won’t have to go out again for a while.

He’s already starting to dislike this flat and this city after less than a month. Maybe he should pay off the remaining rent on his lease here, try a different city. Miami or San Francisco would be warmer. Or he could learn to drive a motorbike and ride across the country. See the mountains. The desert.

That makes Harry think of Sirius, and his brief daydream is shattered by a sharp pang of sadness.

He’s tried and tried to let himself grieve for Sirius. For Remus and Tonks and Fred. And even for his parents. Even though he knows he needs to allow himself to feel the full agony of their deaths, Harry can’t let himself do it. He’s afraid he’ll be overwhelmed, like a man beneath a tidal wave, or he convinces himself that his grief is somehow _less_ than that of people who just lost a brother. Or a son or daughter or husband. And then he feels guilty for not being able to be strong for them—the _real_ mourners—anymore.

Harry can’t be what anyone needs. Since the Battle of Hogwarts, he’s felt less and less like himself. And less and less like the person his friends and family wanted him to be.

So he ran.

Harry sets down his fork and looks away from his plate. He lets his mind return to that summer day in the Burrow garden and the faces of the people gathered around the table. His slice of chicken and ham pie, with the creamy sauce and pieces of meat oozing out of the crust.

Merlin, he’s so homesick.

But the thought of going home makes him feel sicker.

* * *

A week later, Harry tries to rush past the door of 2C on his way out to the cinema, but the aroma of meat and potatoes and herbs catches him like a net. Makes treads of the heavy boots that he bought to keep his feet dry catch on the carpet of the hallway.

Shepherd’s pie. Harry recognises it immediately this time. He’s so overcome with emotion that he leans against the wall, then slides down to sit with his legs pulled against his chest.

Grimmauld Place. The last dinner before he returned to Hogwarts from the Christmas hols. His last night with Sirius.

Harry rests his forehead on his knees and breathes heavily, ignoring the sweat that’s beginning to form under his woollen jumper and heavy parka. He can almost see Sirius’ face, frozen in a grim smile, as he practically pushed Harry out the front door to go to King’s Cross to catch the train.

_Oh, god._

Harry hears the door beside him open and he jerks his head up, intending to apologise to…

Draco Malfoy.

_Draco Malfoy_ stands in the doorway, his face shifting from irritation to blank shock to fury while Harry stares, dumbfounded. He scrambles to his feet.

“ _Potter_ ,” Malfoy spits out. “How the fuck did you find me? What do you want?”

Harry tries to back away. “I didn’t… I wasn’t—”

“Can’t you just leave me alone? Isn’t it enough for you that I was driven out of England?”

“I wasn’t looking for you, Malfoy!” Harry almost shouts. “I live upstairs, in 4A. I had no idea you were in New York, I swear!”

Malfoy grips the doorframe and studies Harry with narrowed eyes. He’s let his hair grow out a bit and he doesn’t look as thin as the last time Harry saw him, about six months ago. But he still has the same sharp features, the same taut posture, the same style of clothing that reeks of gold and taste. Harry could probably recognise the posh bastard from across a crowded room.

“If you didn’t know I lived here, why the hell were you sitting outside my door? Hmm, Potter?” Malfoy asks, folding his arms over his chest.

Harry unzips his parka to delay answering for a moment, but he can’t think of anything plausible to tell Malfoy besides the truth.

“I’ve been smelling your cooking when I walk by and…” Harry hears his voice growing smaller with every word, but he presses on. “It reminded me of home.”

The anger on Malfoy’s face melts into disbelief. “You’ve been lurking outside my flat to smell my food? That’s just… How long has this been going on, exactly?”

“I’ve lived here about a month. And I wasn’t lurking,” Harry says, turning his eyes away from Malfoy. “Well, not until I smelled the shepherd’s pie, because it made me think of… Never mind.”

Malfoy doesn’t ask any more questions. Harry can feel him staring from the doorway, and he tries not to imagine what Malfoy must think of him right now. He knows he looks like shit—pale, unshaven, and probably a little wild-eyed, too, like a skittish alley cat. He takes a deep breath to steady his voice.

“Look, I’m not going to bother you. I want to be left alone, myself.” He ventures a glance at Malfoy, who still seems rattled. “Could I ask you not to tell anyone I’m here? Please?”

“All right,” Malfoy replies. “I can do that, as long as you’re not spying on me again.”

“I’m not,” Harry assures him. He gestures towards the stairs. “I’m just going to go back to my, um, apartment now.”

“Good,” Malfoy says. He steps back and closes the door.

Harry retreats to the fourth floor and unlocks his door with a shaky hand. It’s only after he turns on the lights and tosses his parka on a wingback chair that he remembers the film he was going to see.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks. He’d be too distracted to enjoy it, anyway.

Bloody hell, what are the odds he’d end up being Malfoy’s neighbour? Thousands of miles from England and in one of the biggest cities in the world? Harry would laugh if it didn’t feel like the universe was kicking him in the balls again.

Harry has no idea how long he’s been standing in the middle of his sitting room when he’s startled by a sharp knock on the door. No one’s ever knocked on his door here.

He creeps over to the door as quietly as he can and looks through the peephole. The hallway looks empty. He draws his wand to unlock the door, then opens it slowly.

Still empty. Maybe someone knocked on the wrong door by mistake, Harry thinks with relief. He slips his wand back into his pocket and starts to step back inside his flat.

But then he notices something on the floor at his feet. It’s a bowl covered with a small plate, and there’s a small piece of folded parchment resting on top of them. Harry bends down to pick up the note and open it with careful fingertips.

_I’m not much of a cook yet, but I think it’s a fair approximation of what we had at Hogwarts. Enjoy—D.M._

Harry reads it twice, then reaches down again to peek beneath the plate. Underneath it is a generous serving of shepherd’s pie, the fragrant filling just visible beneath the golden-brown peaks of mashed potatoes. Harry immediately begins to salivate.

He only hesitates for a moment before picking it up and carrying it to the table. It’s not as if Malfoy would try to poison him _now_ , would he?

Harry eats with Malfoy’s note open and propped up against his water glass. His handwriting is all slanting loops and elongated lines crossing the lowercase Ts. Harry smiles, thinking of the rude notes with ridiculous doodles that Malfoy used to send him at school.

The same Malfoy who just tiptoed up to Harry’s door and left him food.

What the fuck is the world coming to?

He looks down at the half-empty bowl with a jolt. The shepherd’s pie is good. More than good, if Harry’s honest. There’s just the slightest hint of nutmeg in the lamb, and the potatoes are thick and buttery.

It’s without a doubt the best meal that Harry’s had in New York.

His thoughts return to Sirius while he eats the rest, more slowly now in order to savour it. Harry’s life should have been full of memories of his godfather. Instead, all he has are a handful of bittersweet moments, undoubtedly full of love but cut short by too-soon goodbyes. Harry can’t help but wish, just a little, that he _had_ been expelled from Hogwarts after the Dementor attack in Little Whinging. He could have lived with Sirius at Grimmauld Place. Asked all the questions he wanted to ask and heard the stories Sirius never got to tell him.

There are tears running down Harry’s cheeks by the time he finishes eating.

He leaves his empty bowl on the table and moves to the sofa. He stretches out and closes his eyes. This time, he doesn’t try to push away the memories of Sirius’ barking laughter, his bitter smile, his firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.

This time, Harry allows his grief to swell within him, like an incoming tide.

* * *

After Harry washes Malfoy’s dishes (carefully—they’re heavy and likely expensive) and returns them in a plastic bag hung on Malfoy’s doorknob, he doesn’t expect to see him again.

Or rather, Harry hopes he won’t. He left a rather effusive note about the shepherd’s pie inside the plastic bag. He still doesn’t know what possessed Malfoy to feed him, but he suspects it was pity, and he’s afraid the note made him look even more pathetic.

Harry doesn’t think he deserves to be pitied by anyone. No one made him come here. He could be eating Molly’s shepherd’s pie almost every week if he’d stayed in England. It’s a regular weeknight dinner at the Burrow, where at least one of the kids is present on any given evening. She never batted an eyelash when Harry turned up for a meal.

He’s beginning to wonder what he ever did to deserve such people. They surely deserved better than him, better than the sharp words and sullen silences that he resorted to whenever they tried to help him make plans for his future.

It’s probably better for everyone that he left England.

February is even colder than January in New York, and most frigid days are deceptively sunny. Everyone’s in an even greater hurry than usual to get to their destinations, so bundled up that only their eyes are visible. Harry ventures out only when he needs to. The biting air and the light reflecting off cars and glass buildings during the short days make the city feel sharper and more unwelcoming than ever.

After seeing Malfoy, Harry spends most of the following week inside watching films. He bought a DVD player and found a video rental shop a few blocks away. He chooses comedies, for the most part, because nothing really terrible happens in them. When the flat gets cold, Harry drags the duvet off his bed and wraps himself up on the sofa. When he’s hungry, he heats up a plate of something from one of the paper cartons in the fridge and eats in front of the telly.

On his way back to the sofa from the loo on Saturday afternoon, Harry notices that someone has slipped a note under his front door. He recognises the heavy parchment immediately when he picks it up. It’s the same kind as the piece still sitting on Harry’s table.

_Potter,_

_I’m making roast beef and Yorkshire puddings today, and it’s an absurd amount of food for one person. Certainly more than I can eat in a week, even with preservation charms. I would be happy to share some with you when it’s ready at six o’clock. Don’t worry—you’re under no obligation to eat with me. You’re welcome to take a plate up to your own flat and return it later._

_D.M._

Harry carries the note back to the sofa and restarts the film he was watching. But he spends more time looking at the piece of parchment than the screen. There’s a hard knot of shame in his gut when he reads it again, one that he might be ready to stop ignoring now.

His last meal at the Burrow before leaving for New York was roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. He felt like a traitor eating it, knowing full well that he had a Portkey booked for two days later. Even Ron and Hermione didn’t know, and wouldn’t until he told them through the Floo the morning he left. Hermione was distraught. Ron looked confused and hurt.

_“It’s just for a little while, I promise. I need to get away. Sort myself out a bit.”_

Harry meant it when he said it. He’s not going to stay away forever. He deliberately left behind the things that are most precious to him. His cloak. His photo album with the pictures of his parents. The few personal possessions Sirius had in Grimmauld Place.

And if those things weren’t enough to draw Harry back to England, there’s Teddy to remind him where he truly belongs. Remus and Tonks entrusted Harry with a solemn duty, and every day away from his godson inflicts another pinprick of guilt and heartache. But if he wants to be the best godfather he can be for Teddy, it means getting his head on straight so he doesn’t bollocks that up, too.

With a deep sigh, Harry turns off the television. He lost track of the story at least a half hour ago, and now his mouth is watering at the thought of the meal that’s being prepared two floors below.

Why not, Harry decides. Malfoy doesn’t want the food to go to waste and it might be nice to get out of his flat, even just for the few minutes it will take to go downstairs and back up again. It’s been two days (or is it three?) since Harry went anywhere.

He needs to get dressed. Showered _and_ dressed. The clock says it’s just past five, which is plenty of time to make himself presentable.

While he’s under the hot spray of water, Harry thinks of that Sunday roast, just after New Year’s. The faces around the table were a few years older—and many months of mourning heavier—than they were on that summer day before the Quidditch World Cup. Their first Christmas without Fred had been a sombre day, and the voices filling the Burrow were still subdued ten days later. Ginny was focused on George, Hermione and Ron on each other, and everyone else on keeping Molly’s spirits up by chatting with her and cheerfully accepting her offers of second and third helpings.

Harry felt like he was already halfway out of the scene, like an actor stepping off stage through a gap in the curtains.

Every bite of the meal was more and more tasteless in Harry’s mouth, and he’d slipped out to the garden before pudding was served, feeling sick. And unworthy.

* * *

After drifting aimlessly around his flat until a couple of minutes before six, Harry slips on his trainers, locks his door behind him with his wand, and descends two flights of stairs with a cold lump of apprehension in his gut. The aroma of roast beef gets stronger the closer he gets to apartment 2C. Harry’s stomach growls loudly.

Malfoy looks faintly surprised when he opens the door, but he quickly changes his expression to one that’s carefully neutral. He’s wearing dark grey trousers and a thin, silvery-blue jumper over a button-down shirt. He looks like he’s about to go to an elegant restaurant, rather than someone who’s been cooking for half the afternoon.

“Please come in,” he says, stepping back to allow Harry go ahead of him into the flat.

Harry flounders for a moment once he’s inside, unsure where he should go, until Malfoy orders him, with mild exasperation, to leave his trainers by the door. He then leads Harry through the sitting room.

Merlin’s beard, now Harry can see just what their elderly neighbour meant when he complained about Malfoy’s furniture deliveries. No corner of the room has been left empty. There are enough sofas and armchairs to seat almost a dozen people, upholstered in rich reds and blues, velvety fabrics contrasting with satiny ones. Everywhere he turns his eyes, there are lamps and bookcases and framed pictures. It’s almost overwhelming to Harry after his own sparse and colourless space.

Head swimming, Harry follows Malfoy to the kitchen. It’s surprisingly tidy, given the enormous meal that was just prepared here, and there isn’t a dirty pot in sight. Even Molly couldn’t find fault with it, Harry thinks. Malfoy hands him an empty plate and gestures to the spread of food laid out on the worktop like a buffet.

“Help yourself,” he tells Harry. “The gravy came out a bit thinner than I would have liked, but the flavour is good. I’m quite pleased with the Yorkshire puddings. I’ve never attempted those before. They’re really quite simple, it turns out.”

Malfoy stops speaking abruptly and turns away to get a plate for himself. Harry’s amused that he’s so eager to talk about his cooking—and that he’s found an audience in Harry, of all people. He picks up the serving fork and lifts two slices of roast beef, perfectly pink in the center, onto his plate.

A golden Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes flecked with salt and rosemary, a ladle of gravy over everything. Brussels sprouts and glazed carrots tucked into the remaining space on the plate. Harry swallows a lump in his throat at the sight of it all. He doesn’t remember being so moved by the sight of food since the Welcome Feasts in his early Hogwarts years.

“It looks wonderful, thank you,” he tells Malfoy, who’s filling up his own plate with generous portions. “Do you, um, cook like this often?”

“Only on Saturdays,” Malfoy replies. “It’s become a weekly routine since I moved here. Or at least, since I decided to learn to cook.”

He sets down his plate and reaches for a row of books on a high shelf. The one he pulls down has a tattered red cover and a moving illustration of a smiling, middle-aged witch on the cover, Harry sees when Malfoy holds it up. _A Potful of Magic: British Cookery for Every Witch and Wizard_.

“I found it in a wizarding bookshop in Greenwich Village,” Malfoy continues. “It’s fifty years old, but it has all the classics in there, as well as basic cooking spells. It doesn’t have many dessert recipes, so I’m going to have to—”

He cuts himself off again and returns the book to the shelf. When he turns back, he resumes spooning food onto his plate without another word. Harry’s never seen Malfoy be the least bit self-conscious before. It’s both unexpected and a little painful.

“But why all this?” Harry asks, gesturing at the platters and bowls in front of him. “There are simpler things to cook, especially if it’s just for yourself.”

Malfoy looks up at Harry for a moment, seeming to weigh his next words before speaking. “I assume for the same reason you were hanging around outside my door. Because I’m rather homesick and I thought it might help.”

“Oh,” Harry says.

He realises then that Malfoy didn’t bring him the shepherd’s pie out of pity, but sympathy. Sympathy for someone who’s also far from home and craving the comfort of a familiar meal.

“Look, would you like to eat here instead of carrying that all the way back up to your flat?” Malfoy asks briskly. “We don’t have to attempt a conversation, if that would make things awkward.”

“This is already pretty awkward,” Harry says. “But yeah, sure. It’s better than eating in front of the telly again, I guess.”

Malfoy shakes his head in disapproval and leads the way to an alcove with a round wooden table and four heavy-looking chairs. Neither of them comment on the fact that there are already two place settings on the table as they take their seats.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He tries the roast beef first, then the potatoes. Malfoy glances at him between bites, but Harry waits until he’s tried everything on his plate before he pauses to wipe his mouth with his napkin and speak.

“This is amazing,” Harry says sincerely. “Everything’s done perfectly.”

Malfoy lifts his chin with a faint smile. “Thank you.”

Harry takes a few more bites and wonders if he should try to start a conversation. Malfoy’s obviously keen for someone to chat with. He searches his mind for a neutral topic, one that isn’t intrusive and won’t veer too close to the past.

“Your flat is very nice,” Harry attempts. “You’ve, um, really made it… homey.”

Malfoy gives Harry a blank look. “I’ve tried to. I found that putting a little effort into the place has helped make it feel like my own. Especially since I didn’t bring anything but the necessities from England.”

“Mmm,” Harry says, thinking of his bare flat upstairs. Malfoy’s sitting room makes him feel a bit claustrophobic, if he’s honest, but it’s certainly more welcoming in comparison. He reminds himself that he’s only staying here for a few months, while Malfoy is actually living here. Maybe even permanently. Harry feels a pang of sympathy for him when he thinks of that.

“So you’re going to be living here for a while, you think?”

“I’m not certain,” Malfoy replies. “I’m here to finish my schooling, which will be completed this summer, then I’ll decide what to do next.”

“Oh, do you take classes at Ilvermorny?”

“No, at a small academy here in the city. They offer educational certificates to people who either didn’t finish their coursework at a traditional secondary institution, like me, or who were educated abroad and need an American certificate for the careers they would like to pursue here.”

“But you almost finished all seven years at Hogwarts, and they offered NEWTs at the Ministry last autumn,” Harry says.

Malfoy sits back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment. “Potter, I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the last year of school was an utter farce, and the year before that wasn’t much better. Not for me, anyway. I was in no way prepared to take my exams, especially after the… upheaval of the summer.”

Harry guesses that Malfoy’s referring to the seizure of Malfoy Manor by the Ministry and Lucius’ trial. He heard the news that Narcissa left for the Continent last summer, but nothing about her son, and Hermione told him that Malfoy wasn’t among the students who returned to Hogwarts. At the time, Harry assumed that he was living off his family’s abundant gold and biding his time until he could go out in public again.

“And you?” Malfoy asks, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “What brings you to New York?”

Harry pokes at his carrots. He wasn’t expecting this question, for some reason. “I just... needed to get out of England for a while, you could say.”

When he looks up, Malfoy’s staring at Harry with a startled expression.

“Potter,” he says in a low voice, “you aren’t a _fugitive_ , are you?”

Harry barks a laugh. “No, I’m not a fugitive, Malfoy! Is that really the first thing that came to mind?”

“Well, it’s happened before!” Malfoy exclaims. Then he smiles wryly. “I wouldn’t put it past you to foment a revolution against the Ministry, that’s all.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, but no, I’m not on the run from anybody. Just visiting.”

Harry turns his attention back to his food, still amused. Malfoy lets him eat in peace. It feels surreal to be sitting across from him. He still eats with the same precise movements, the same perfect posture that Harry remembers from when he watched the Slytherin table across the Great Hall. It’s rather comforting to have this little piece of familiarity in front of him, when the past few weeks have left Harry feeling like he’s been set down in an alien world.

With Malfoy’s encouragement, Harry follows him back to the kitchen for second helpings (but smaller ones this time). When they sit down again, Malfoy hesitates before he picks up his fork and knife.

“The Welcome Feast, fourth year. Do you remember?” he asks.

Harry does remember, now that Malfoy mentions it. He remembers eating a similar meal, flanked by Hermione and Ron, with the lively buzz of reunited classmates around them. The announcement of the Triwizard Tournament. The outrage of his teammates when Dumbledore announced that there’d be no Quidditch. The faintly terrifying presence of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at the staff table.

“Yeah, I remember.”

Harry’s emotions must be written clearly in his expression. Malfoy doesn’t press him on the subject, and they eat the rest of the meal in silence.

* * *

Harry reckons it must be loneliness—or simply the pathetic state of his life—that causes him to dwell on his dinner with Malfoy throughout the following week. To be honest, it’s mostly Malfoy he thinks about, rather than the food. Although it’s true that greasy cartons of takeaway are getting less and less appealing by the day and Harry wishes he had some leftover roast beef instead.

As he walks past the Museum of Natural History, Harry wonders if Malfoy goes to museums, too. Does he ride the subway and carry bags of food home from the shops? Does he have any friends here yet?

Harry meanders through his week, as usual, taking advantage of a break in the frigid weather to walk through Central Park one afternoon and mingle with university students in a bar in Washington Square on Friday night. But his mind seems to have latched onto Malfoy like an anchor of sorts, something to keep Harry from being swept away from his own past, from himself.

It would be easy to forget everything here, he thinks after a few beers and twenty minutes of chatting up a cute bloke in tight jeans. To throw himself into this maelstrom of people and alcohol and noise and never look back.

He knows he can’t do it, though. He can forget for a few hours, but eventually the buzz wears off. Or he sees something that reminds him of home and the people waiting for him there—a head of red hair, a baby in a pram. Harry’s torn between resentment towards the memories he can’t escape and the comfort of having something to return to whenever he’s ready.

Malfoy probably doesn’t have that comfort anymore. Harry’s curious to know if he’s feeling adrift, too, or if he’s relieved to get away from his past.

There’s another note on the floor just inside Harry’s front door when he arrives home on Saturday afternoon. He sets down the shopping bags that he just carried up three flights of stairs and reads the note eagerly.

_Potter,_

_Roast chicken, mash, rolls, vegetables. Six o’clock, if you’re interested in joining me._

_D.M._

Harry smiles. He did secretly hope for an invitation earlier today, when he remembered it was Saturday. He knows Malfoy well enough to feel confident that he wouldn’t ask Harry grudgingly. There aren’t any social obligations either of them need to observe. No compelling reason for Malfoy to be neighbourly or for Harry to reciprocate in any way. They have almost half a lifetime of history behind them, and yet there’s nothing to push them together anymore.

Harry’s unaccountably proud of them both for doing it anyway.

He puts away his new purchases—some thick socks and jumpers and an absurdly expensive throw for his sofa—and ignores his empty stomach for the rest of the afternoon. The meal awaiting him is better than anything in his own kitchen, and Harry knows it will taste even better if he’s ravenous.

This time, Harry has to knock on the door three times, making him worry that Malfoy changed his mind, after all. He looks harried but pleased when he finally opens the door, and he’s dressed just as impeccably as last week. Harry’s glad he put on one of his new jumpers.

Harry takes off his shoes, wades through the maze of furniture to the kitchen, and accepts an empty plate from his host. They don’t speak until Harry blurts a rather belated, “So, how was your week?” when Malfoy’s just about to take his first bite of chicken.

“It was fine, thank you,” Malfoy replies stiffly. “Yours?”

“It was okay. I did some shopping. Went to the Planetarium.”

“The _what_?”

“Planetarium. It’s, um, a place to teach people about astronomy. They project pictures onto a ceiling that’s shaped like a dome.”

Malfoy doesn’t look impressed. “Well, I suppose it _is_ impossible to see the stars here. I didn’t realise you were interested in the subject.”

“Mmm, not really,” Harry admits. “It was just something to do.”

“Is that what you came all this way from England to do? Sightseeing?”

“Not specifically. Like I said, I just needed to get away for a while. But since I’m here, I might as well do things. Don’t you go out and explore the city?”

“Sometimes,” Malfoy says. He looks uncomfortable with the idea. “It’s still very new to me, living like this.”

“What, around Muggles?” Harry asks, and then mentally kicks himself for being so tactless. He watches with dismay as Malfoy sets down his fork and looks at Harry coldly.

“I meant _living in the city_ , Potter. Aside from a few months in London last summer, I’ve only ever lived in Wiltshire or Scotland. And as for New York, you must have noticed that all the magical establishments are hidden amongst the non-magical ones. It wouldn’t be possible to avoid No-Maj people unless I never left my flat.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought…”

“I _know_ what you thought. I realise I have a great deal to learn about them, but I’m certainly not avoiding Muggles on principle.” Malfoy runs a hand over his face. “It’s the crowds that bother me, if you really want to know. And the flashing lights at night.”

Harry does know. He remembers the red neon sign at the restaurant, as well as the flashing blue lights of the police cars… and the white glare of headlights in his eyes when he crosses the street.

“Yeah, they do look like… you know,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t like it either.”

Malfoy nods, placated, and they resume eating. Harry compliments his cooking again and marvels at how far he’s come in a few months.

“It’s not so different from potions, if you think about it. Much less precise, in fact. I’m sure you could learn if you wanted to.”

“Oh, I already know how to cook. I just don’t like to,” Harry shrugs. “Given the choice, I’d rather just let someone else do it.”

“Well, how convenient for you that I enjoy cooking, since you can’t be bothered,” Malfoy frowns.

“I’m not being lazy, Malfoy. I _really_ hate cooking. I’d rather just go out or get takeaway,” Harry says defensively. “I don’t expect anyone to cook for me personally.”

“I see. You must be getting tired of eating out all the time, if you’re willing to eat with me.”

Harry blinks at Malfoy for a moment. He can’t tell if he’s being self-deprecating—which is something he never imagined Malfoy could be—or if he’s just being frank with Harry.

“I don’t mind eating with you. You make all my favourite dishes,” Harry says lightly. “And you keep inviting me, so why shouldn’t I eat with you?”

“I’m sure you could think of plenty of reasons,” Malfoy murmurs, pushing his green beans around his plate.

Harry decides to let the subject drop. They’ve narrowly avoided a row as it is. But he’s unsettled by Malfoy’s implication that he’s _spoilt_ because he refuses to cook for himself, or that Harry’s taking advantage of him somehow.

He doubts Malfoy would let him return the favour by sharing Chinese food or curry in Harry’s flat. But there may be something else he can offer Malfoy instead of a meal.

“Have you gone to any museums?” Harry asks.

“No, I haven’t,” Malfoy says.

“You might like them. They’re usually pretty quiet. I find them kind of soothing, myself, especially when it’s not crowded.” Malfoy hums in acknowledgement, so Harry takes the leap. “Maybe you could come with me sometime.”

Malfoy tilts his head. “What kind of museum?”

“Any kind. Art, history, science. There’s a large art museum on the other side of the park with lots of famous paintings.”

“Perhaps,” Malfoy says. “I don’t have classes on Thursdays.”

“Yeah, all right. Thursday.”

Harry offers to help Malfoy with the washing up, but he cordially declines.

“I try to take care of it as I cook so that there’s very little left to do besides enjoy the meal. This will only take a few minutes to clean up.”

He walks Harry to the door again. As they stand in the dim vestibule, Harry can tell that Malfoy wants to say something, and whatever it is isn’t easy for him to put into words. He waits with a hand on the doorknob after putting his trainers back on.

“Potter, I didn’t mean to suggest earlier that you _should_ be cooking. Or that I’m ungrateful for the company. I honestly am happy to have you, not only to help me with the overabundance of food, but also to express again how much I appreciate your speaking on behalf of my mother and me last spring. If you hadn’t done that, I probably wouldn’t have this—” Malfoy gestures towards his sitting room. “—or a second chance to… make something of myself.”

Harry lets his fingertips slide off the doorknob. He can tell that Malfoy’s sincere, even if it pains him to bring up the past. It hurts Harry, too, a sharp little twist in his chest that he’s come to recognise as remorse. He knows he’s hurt Malfoy as much as Malfoy’s hurt him.

“You already thanked me, and so did your mum,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t want you to keep inviting me because you think you owe it to me, or something. I’d rather just… start with a clean slate, if that’s possible.”

Malfoy nods, slowly, then extends his hand to Harry, who gives it a firm shake.

“I think that’s possible,” Malfoy says. “So, Thursday?”

“Yeah. Is two o’clock good for you? The museum should be a little emptier at that time of day, after all the school groups leave.”

“Two o’clock,” Malfoy agrees. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“Goodnight.”

Harry feels strangely light on his feet as he climbs the stairs to his flat, despite his full stomach.

* * *

Harry shouldn’t be surprised that Malfoy’s an ideal companion at the museum, since he was raised in an enormous Manor that was probably crammed full of art and antiques. He takes his time in each room, reading the tiny plaques next to each piece, lingering by some of them but still mindful of when Harry’s ready to move on. They don’t speak much—Harry confessed that he knows next to nothing about art beyond the names of a few painters, to which Malfoy responded by saying that he’d be shocked to find out otherwise—and three hours pass very peacefully.

Harry finds his eyes drawn to Malfoy while he’s studying the paintings and sculptures. He sometimes stands with his hands clasped behind his back, and other times with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted slightly. He’s really quite striking, Harry has to admit, with his platinum hair that brushes his jaw and his graceful movements. He catches the eye of more than one person wandering the galleries, and a pair of teenage girls even follow them for half an hour so they can keep watching him. Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice them.

It’s dark when they walk back across the park to their building. Harry asks Malfoy if he enjoyed the museum.

“Yes, I did—the landscape paintings, in particular. They remind me of the summer visits my parents and I made to France when I was a child.”

“Is that where your mother lives now?” Harry asks.

Malfoy sighs a white cloud into the cold air. “No, she’s in Switzerland, in a… well, I suppose _sanatorium_ is the proper word, but in reality it’s more like a luxury hotel with Healers and therapeutic treatments.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that she’s unwell.”

“I wouldn’t describe her as _unwell_ ,” Malfoy says with a touch of scorn. “Apparently, the war was quite taxing on her nerves and she needs some time to recover from the ordeal.”

Harry doesn’t reply right away. He’s seen firsthand the effects of the war on the people around him. Of course it left a mark on the people they fought against too, even people like Narcissa Malfoy, who were complicit, but didn’t carry out the atrocities that were demanded of Voldemort’s followers. Not too long ago, Harry would have been angry at the thought that anyone on _the other side_ deserved any pity. Now, he just feels too tired to muster any of his old outrage.

“It was an ordeal for everyone,” Harry says at last. “It’s hard to imagine just going on, like it never happened.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you, Potter, but it would be nice if she acknowledged, along with her terrible suffering, even the slightest remorse for her involvement. And the consequences for myself, her son.”

Harry’s taken aback by the bitterness in Malfoy’s words.

“And lest you think I’m not doing that myself, I do take full responsibility for my own choices,” Malfoy continues. “I’m not trying to run away from them by leaving England. If there were opportunities there for me, someone who’d be willing to give me a chance for a career, I would have stayed. I don’t want you to think that I’m hiding out here.”

“I didn’t think that, Malfoy, honestly.”

Malfoy seems abashed by his little tirade.

“All right,” he says, then doesn’t speak again for the rest of the walk.

It’s a cold evening, but not unbearable for their short walk. Harry looks around at the bare trees and the dull, frozen surface of the reservoir and imagines what it would be like to walk here on a summer night. Would there be families having picnics on the grass? Couples strolling the paths with ice cream cones? Do the lights of the buildings that encircle the park reflect off the water at night?

For the first time since coming to New York, Harry feels a bit torn about leaving. He glances at the man walking beside him, buttoned up to his chin in a black wool coat. Malfoy will still be here this summer, but Harry will have returned to England to attempt to pick up the thread of his story where it left off.

The problem is, Harry’s pretty sure that he wants to take his story in an entirely different direction than everyone expects. None of the careers his friends and family were pushing him to choose—a Ministry man destined for the highest levels of power; a prominent activist or philanthropist, always in the public eye; an Auror still protecting the war-scarred populace—appeal to Harry in the slightest.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’d rather do instead. At a time when his friends are eager to begin their adult lives, Harry feels so weighed down with grief and regret that he can’t move forward at all.

He can’t even say whether coming to New York has helped break him out of the morass, or if he’s just… _hiding out_ , as Malfoy said.

As they’re entering their building, they pass their elderly neighbour on his way outside. He looks between Harry and Malfoy suspiciously.

“Hello,” Harry says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy stiffen.

“Cal,” Malfoy nods in greeting as he pulls off his gloves.

“Met each other, didja?” Cal asks, frowning. “Didn’t think you’d wanna hang around with _his kind_ , Harry. A nice kid like you.”

Harry feels his hackles rise. Malfoy may have been a bit rude to Cal when he moved in, but having spent some time with him these past few weeks, Harry doubts that Malfoy did anything terrible enough to be so condemned.

“Oh, we already knew each other,” Harry replies cheerfully, throwing his arm around Malfoy’s shoulders. “We went to school together. Small world, huh?”

Cal looks confused. “Yeah, how ‘bout that?” he mutters, and then hobbles towards the front door without so much as a goodbye.

Harry lets his arm slide back down to his side and finds Malfoy staring at him.

“What was that about?” he asks Harry. “I had no idea you were on such friendly terms with Cal.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “I wasn’t even sure of his name until you just said it. I thought it was Carl, or something. We just say hi in the hallways, that’s all. I didn’t know you two were sworn enemies.”

“We are not _sworn enemies_ , Potter. We just got off on the wrong foot when I first arrived here. I’ve been nothing but polite to him since then, but apparently he’s the type to hold a grudge.”

“Wow, I wonder what that’s like,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and turning towards the stairs.

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he’s afraid that he went too far. He’s never dared tease Malfoy before, like he would a friend. Fortunately, Malfoy just gives a rueful smile when Harry looks back over his shoulder.

“Do you want to come up to mine for tea?” Harry asks as they’re ascending the stairs. “Nothing fancy, just teabags from a box. And I think I might have some biscuits somewhere.”

“As terribly appealing as that sounds, I have some essays to work on. Thank you for taking me to the museum. I enjoyed it very much.”

“We could go again sometime,” Harry says. “Back to the Met to see more there, or we could try a different museum.”

“I’d like that,” Malfoy says.

Harry hesitates while he watches Malfoy draw his wand to unlock his door. There’s nothing waiting for him upstairs but colourless rooms and a solitary evening in front of the TV. He wishes he’d suggested getting some dinner after the museum, but Malfoy already spent half an afternoon with him. It would be selfish to ask for any more of Malfoy’s time today.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Harry says.

“Dinner on Saturday?” Malfoy asks. “If you’re not busy, that is.”

Harry grins. “Yeah. I’ll be here. What are you making?”

“It will be a surprise. I think you’ll like it. Goodnight, Potter.”

Malfoy slips through his door, leaving Harry to stare at the brass “2C” with a smile still lingering on his face.

* * *

Whatever Malfoy’s cooking does not smell right, Harry thinks.

He stands with his closed hand paused in mid air and sniffs again before knocking. There’s a faint crash from somewhere in the flat, followed by approaching footsteps. Malfoy yanks the door open with a slightly terrifying expression.

“You’re early,” he snaps.

“Just a few minutes early. I can come back if it’s not ready,” Harry offers, resisting his instinct to take a step back.

“It’s not going to be ready at all. I burnt it.” Malfoy closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair to push it off his face.

He’s a mess. He’s wearing an apron over a rumpled button-down shirt that’s rolled up at the sleeves, and his feet are bare. Harry has the daft urge to hug him.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Harry says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “It’s beyond all hope now. I just Vanished it all.”

Harry winces. Letting food go to waste is something he can’t bring himself to do, something that makes him feel ill to even think about. He forces himself to focus on the problem at hand instead.

“Let me take you out for dinner, then. Please? It’s the least I can do, since you fed me two weeks in a row. Do you like Italian food? There’s a restaurant a couple blocks away that’s nice.”

Malfoy sighs in resignation, then looks over his shoulder in the direction of his kitchen. “All right. Just give me a half hour to finish cleaning up and get myself ready. Thank you.”

“Come up and knock on my door whenever you’re ready,” Harry tells him. “4A.”

With admirable promptness, Malfoy arrives at Harry’s door in thirty minutes, back to his usual put-together self. He looks past Harry towards the sitting room, then raises his eyebrows.

“It came furnished like that. It’s just a short-term lease,” Harry explains, reaching for his coat and scarf.

“It’s horrid. No wonder you go out so much,” Malfoy says. “A hotel room would feel more like home than this.”

_It’s not home,_ Harry counters silently. He doesn’t consider saying it aloud, though. Returning to England isn’t something he wants to talk about right now. Or even think about. The closer it gets to the end of his stay here, the more Harry barricades his mind against it.

On the short walk to the restaurant, Harry asks Malfoy what he was attempting to cook.

“Never mind,” he grumbles.

Harry lets it drop, even though he’d like to reassure Malfoy that he’s doing great for someone who never cooked anything until a few months ago. He senses that Malfoy doesn’t want to be comforted right now.

They have to wait for a table, since they don’t have a reservation. They find seats at the bar, where Harry takes the liberty of casting a discreet _Confundus_ Charm on the bartender before he can ask for ID. He mastered the timing of that little trick during his first month in New York, after learning the hard way that bouncers won’t let anyone through the door without proof that they’re twenty-one. Malfoy waves away Harry’s offer to buy him a drink. He’ll order wine with his meal, he says. He fiddles with a paper coaster while Harry sips his beer.

By the time they get a table, Harry’s beginning to worry that he should have proposed something else for dinner. Malfoy seems uncomfortable here, and he barely attempts to hold up his end of the conversation while they wait for their meals to arrive. Maybe it’s too loud. Or maybe it’s because they’re sitting so close together that their knees bump beneath the small table, and the restaurant is full to capacity. Malfoy did mention that he doesn’t like crowds. But then he raves about his Veal Scaloppini and the wine he chose, and he says he wants to return to try some of the other dishes on the menu, leaving Harry puzzled about what, exactly, is bothering him.

Halfway through the meal, there’s a loud crash from the kitchen that makes them both jump. The hum of conversation around them pauses for a moment, then resumes. Harry squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the sharp jolt to his nerves to ebb. Wills his heartbeat and breathing to return to normal.

He feels a warm hand wrap around his wrist for a moment, then pull away. When Harry opens his eyes, he sees Malfoy watching him with a startled expression that must mirror Harry’s own.

“Someone just dropped a tray of dishes,” Malfoy says lightly. He picks up his glass and takes a long sip of his wine. Then another.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, still shaken. “That’s probably what it was.”

They both decline the offer of dessert. Harry thinks they both just want to get out of here, away from the din and the other people sitting so close around them. It seems to take forever for the bill to arrive, and then there’s another long wait for the credit card slip that Harry needs to sign. Malfoy’s lips press together in disapproval every time he sees their server attending other tables, making Harry feel even worse about the evening.

Stepping back into the raw February night is a relief, despite the blare of Broadway traffic and the crowded pavements. Malfoy seems preoccupied with something again, and Harry decides that he can’t bear the thought of returning to his flat—and the days ahead when they probably won’t see each other—without at least expressing his concern. When they’re a block from their building, he musters the courage to ask.

“Is everything okay? Besides whatever you were trying to cook, I mean?”

Malfoy stops walking abruptly. Harry has to turn around after getting a step ahead of him.

“All right, there is something,” Malfoy begins. “Something I need to tell you. But before I do, I want you to know that I’m not trying to embarrass you or force you to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

Harry feels the blood leave his face. “What is it?”

“I saw you last night, in that club in Chelsea,” Malfoy says quietly, carefully. “I was just leaving when I noticed you…”

He trails off, and Harry feels the shock of Malfoy’s statement roll through him. It was a gay club. Not only that, but Harry spent most of the evening grinding against at least two different blokes and then getting off with a different one in a dim corridor near the loos. Harry quickly drops his gaze to the pavement in front of his boots, mortified at the thought that Malfoy might have seen—

_Wait_.

Malfoy was at a gay club.

Harry can’t stop himself from looking back up in surprise. Malfoy’s watching him with a concerned expression, but he also seems to be bracing himself for Harry’s reaction.

“Oh,” Harry says. “I had no idea you were…”

Malfoy huffs softly. “I had no idea that _you_ were, either. Like I said, I won’t mention it again if you don’t want me to. You should have been able to decide whether or not to tell me at all. But it’s better that we both know, I suppose, in case we run into each other somewhere.”

“Yeah, that would have been really... awkward,” Harry mumbles.

He imagines looking across that club in Chelsea and seeing Malfoy with some bloke. Dancing. Kissing. Maybe even more. Just the thought of it makes Harry’s head spin, makes him feel hot beneath his coat.

_No_. Harry forces himself to look Malfoy in the eye and smile reassuringly before continuing towards home. Malfoy falls into step beside him again.

“I don’t mind you knowing,” Harry shrugs. “I haven’t told a lot of people at home yet, but only because it hasn’t been very long since I figured it out. Has it been a long time for you? I mean, since you’ve known?”

“Yes,” Malfoy replies tersely. “Quite a long time.”

“Oh. New York’s a fun place to live, for going out to bars and clubs. I’m sure London is, too, but I never did.”

“Is that why you came here? To have some anonymity while you _sow your wild oats_?”

“No,” Harry says defensively, caught off guard by Malfoy’s sudden scathing tone. He waits until they’ve taken ten or so more steps to continue. “I guess I felt like I needed some distance in order to process everything that happened. It was hard to do that in England when there was so much pressure to move on after a few months.”

“Pressure from whom?” Malfoy asks. “From the public? Did they want you to lead a victory celebration through Diagon Alley, or something ridiculous like that?”

“No, from my friends, mostly. They all went back to Hogwarts or into some kind of training programme, but I wasn’t ready yet.” Harry sighs. “I still feel like I’m a mess, to be honest.”

They’ve reached their building. Malfoy pauses before opening the door.

“You went through a lot,” he says softly. “More than anyone.”

Harry shakes his head. He knows this, objectively, but it’s still difficult for him to acknowledge it without feeling like he’s elevating his own ordeals over those of other people. People whose scars are worse, whose raw anguish at the funerals was written clearly on their faces.

The people who looked to Harry for comfort and strength that he couldn’t give.

He and Malfoy don’t speak again until they’re in front of Malfoy’s door. Harry can still detect the faint smell of burnt food, even now.

“Thank you for dinner. It was excellent.”

“Oh, good,” Harry says. “I’m sorry if the restaurant was too crowded for you. I didn’t think about it being so busy on a Saturday night.”

“No, no, it was fine,” Malfoy says, looking confused for a moment. Then he seems to understand why Harry’s apologising. “If I was distracted during the meal, it was only because I was wondering whether to broach the subject of… seeing you last night. I wasn’t bothered by the restaurant at all.”

Harry’s relieved. “Okay, I’m glad you liked it.”

“Are you free on Thursday? I’d like to take you up on your offer of another museum trip.”

“Yeah, I don’t have any plans.” Harry relaxes even further. Thank goodness their intense—and revealing—conversation this evening hasn’t changed Malfoy’s mind about spending time with him. Harry’s not sure how he was able to bear those desolate weeks before Malfoy found him sitting on the floor of the corridor.

As Harry unlocks his door, he reels again at the disclosure that Malfoy just made. It never occurred to him… all these years they’ve known each other, all the time spent _watching_. He stands in the dark sitting room for a few minutes, thinking about the club and what else Malfoy may have been doing since he moved to New York.

_Christ._

Harry turns on a lamp and distracts himself with shitty television programmes until he feels sleepy.

* * *

On Thursday, Harry and Malfoy visit the Guggenheim Museum.

They roam the galleries in companionable silence, and once again Harry watches Malfoy from across the room when his eyes are fixed on a painting or sculpture. He’s struck by the improbability of this entire scenario—visiting a No-Maj museum with his former rival, the restless anticipation he felt since Saturday for this outing, the strange pleasure he takes in seeing the lights shine on Malfoy’s pale hair and the gentle curl of his hands at his sides.

Harry’s definitely not paying as much attention to the art as he usually does.

This time, he remembers to ask Malfoy, as they’re putting their coats back on in the lobby, if he’d like to get some dinner. Malfoy demurs again, saying that he’s just going to heat up something to eat while he studies. He does inform Harry that he expects him at six o’clock on Saturday. Apparently, he’s determined to succeed in cooking whatever dish was ruined last weekend. He still won’t tell Harry what it is, though.

It’s a long two days until he can find out.

A snowstorm, the first proper one since Harry arrived in New York, rolls over the city on Saturday afternoon. Harry spends the last few hours before dinner in an armchair that he dragged over to his sitting room window, watching the flakes swirl down from the heavy clouds. It’s mesmerising. He hears the scrape of shovels as bundled figures emerge from the other buildings to clear steps and pavements. _Sidewalks_ , he reminds himself _._ Along the street, the parked cars become white mounds under the streetlamps as twilight descends.

Harry’s startled when the world goes black outside. When he looks behind him, he realises that the electricity’s gone out. He steps away from the window and casts a _Lumos_ , which bathes the sitting room in golden light that makes it look even more ghastly than usual.

Harry hopes the outage doesn’t last long. When storms blew in off the Atlantic and cut the electricity at Privet Drive, Aunt Petunia would pull torches and emergency candles from a high cupboard in the kitchen, but Harry doesn’t have either of these. He remembers that Malfoy’s probably trying to cook right now, and he wonders how he’s coping. Two disasters in a row would be terrible.

Since Malfoy doesn’t come upstairs to tell him that dinner’s off, Harry descends through the silent hallway and taps on the door of 2C. Malfoy answers immediately, looking composed and ready for company, Harry’s relieved to see.

“Did you have any trouble cooking after the power went out?” Harry asks as they weave through the crowded sitting room by wandlight and the faint glow that’s coming from the dining alcove. Malfoy must have Conjured a light there.

“No, I was almost done. The stove and oven don’t need electricity anyway.” Malfoy hands Harry a plate. “Chicken and ham pie. I assume you were lurking outside when I made it a few weeks ago, and I thought you might like to get to eat some this time.”

“I wasn’t lurking!” Harry protests, even though he really was when Cal stumbled across him. “It did smell good, though.”

Malfoy smirks triumphantly, but he cuts a generous slice for Harry without any further gloating. Harry adds some peas and carrots to his plate and carries it to the table. He’s glad to see Malfoy in a better mood than last Saturday.

Apparently Malfoy keeps a supply of candles. And a small candelabra to put them in. The light cocoons them in the alcove, leaving the rest of the flat in shadows.

“While I do admire the Americans’ cleverness at integrating Muggle technology into wizarding homes, I wish they had foreseen this possibility,” Malfoy says, waving his fork at the light fixture hanging above the table. “I’m going to be very upset if the food in the refrigerator spoils. You don’t have this problem with chilling cupboards.”

“Just keep the door closed as much as you can,” Harry advises him. “It’ll be fine for a few hours if you keep the cold air trapped in there. The pie is great, by the way.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t as distracted as I was last week. Though I did panic for a moment when the lights went out suddenly. I was just stepping out of the shower and my wand was in the other room.”

Harry almost chokes on a mouthful of peas. That’s not an image he needs in his mind right now. He takes a few sips of water to wash down the peas and compose himself. _Merlin._

They talk about their Hogwarts friends and what they’re doing now. Malfoy grills Harry about the upcoming resumption of Quidditch League games and whether any players have been traded. Harry has to confess that he wasn’t paying attention to Quidditch in the autumn. He rarely opened the _Prophet_ , as a matter of fact. Even when there weren’t absurd stories speculating about Harry’s romantic interests and future career choice, it was a constant reminder of the damage wrought on the people and businesses of wizarding Britain, and even the Ministry, by the war. Harry had enough reminders, thanks.

Malfoy empathises with Harry’s boycott. The _Prophet_ had a field day over Lucius’ conviction and the seizure of Malfoy Manor as a crime scene. The smug articles couldn’t have made it easier for Draco or his mother. Harry eagerly turns the conversation elsewhere.

He insists on helping with the washing up and putting the leftovers away. Malfoy is very particular about the state of his kitchen, Harry discovers, and the work probably could have been done in half the time if Malfoy weren’t dictating every step and watching to make sure it’s carried out to his satisfaction. Harry wonders if Malfoy’s this fastidious about everything or just his newly-discovered cooking hobby.

When the last dry plate has been returned to the cupboard and they’re standing in the light of Harry’s wand, Malfoy goes silent for a moment. He doesn’t usher Harry towards the door, as he usually does. Instead, he reaches up to tuck his fringe behind his ear and, haltingly, offers Harry tea.

Harry accepts. He was hoping he’d get to hang out here for a while after dinner, both for the enjoyment of Malfoy’s company and to avoid the eerie shadows of his own flat. From an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen, Harry watches Malfoy set the kettle on the stove and measure tea into the pot. The familiarity of the task makes his movements assured and steady, but he also seems very much aware of Harry’s eyes on him.

They carry their tea to the sitting room windows. Malfoy’s flat looks out over a tiny garden and the back of the buildings on the next street over, but it’s pitch dark out there now. Only after they both cast _Nox_ on their wands is it possible to see the clouds above the city, illuminated by the lights that the storm didn’t manage to extinguish. Harry knows there are millions of people around them—some of them waiting out the storm in darkened rooms, like them—yet it feels like he and Malfoy are miles away from anyone.

“It’s so quiet,” Malfoy murmurs. “I’ve got used to car horns and sirens at all hours. It’s rather strange not to hear them.”

Harry hums in agreement. He can’t see anything but the faintest silhouette of Malfoy’s profile, still turned towards the window. But he’s close, so close that Harry could reach out and touch the fine weave of Malfoy’s jumper if he wanted to. If he needed some physical reassurance that he’s not alone in the dark.

As if he’s read Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy says softly, “You could stay here tonight, if you’d like.”

“Stay? You mean sleep on the sofa?” Harry asks.

He hears Malfoy set his teacup on the windowsill, then feels tentative fingertips brush his forearm.

_Oh._

“No, I mean stay… with me.” His voice has fallen to a shaky whisper. “If you want to. If you don’t, then we can just forget I ever asked.”

Harry’s still frozen by surprise, but his mind is racing, spurred into a panicked gallop by the offer Malfoy’s just made. _Stay_. His body has already made up its mind—that’s obvious by the warmth pooling in his groin. He’s been aware for a while that he finds Malfoy attractive.

And it’s been so long since he’s done anything impulsive… half a lifetime, it seems. Harry sets his teacup down.

Turning away from the window, Harry lifts his hand, carefully guides it forward until his palm finds Malfoy’s chest. He hears Malfoy draw a sharp breath and feels him shuffle closer.

“Okay,” Harry whispers. “I think I’d like that.”

“Oh,” Malfoy sounds faintly surprised, but he doesn’t hesitate more than a moment to make good on Harry’s acceptance. He places his hands on Harry’s hips and aligns their bodies with only an inch or two between them, his quickening breath so close that Harry can feel it stir the air between them.

Harry slides the hand on Malfoy’s chest up around the back of his neck. His heart pounds faster when the silken hair brushes his fingers. The realisation of what they’re about to do catches up with him, but he knows the moment to turn words into actions has come. He finds Malfoy’s jaw with his other hand, cups it in the hot curve of his palm, and kisses him.

Malfoy’s arms wrap around him and his warm, tea-sweet mouth opens to Harry’s. They pull each other close, chest-to-chest, feet dovetailing together. Any doubts about whether he wants this are scattered by the rush of desire Harry feels burning through him. Any sense of foreignness is lost in the electric way their lips and tongues move together.

Malfoy makes a low sound and draws back to whisper Harry’s name, breathless and wondering. Without casting a light, he guides them through the sitting room and down a short hallway, never taking his hands off Harry until they’re beside the bed. Then Harry hears him pull the duvet down and sit on the edge of the mattress.

It’s too dark for Harry’s liking now. He wants to see everything. He draws his wand and Conjures a small, glowing orb to hover above them.

When he looks down, Malfoy— _Draco_ —is gazing up at him, lips slightly parted and pupils wide. He gently takes Harry’s wand and lays it on the bedside table, then he reaches for Harry. He goes eagerly, tugging Draco down beside him, ready to find his mouth again and explore the warm skin beneath his clothes.

Draco’s neither shy nor inexperienced, judging by how quickly he gets them both out of their clothing. But then he hesitates, lets his hand hover over Harry for a few heartbeats, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed this.

“Come on,” Harry whispers, taking Draco’s hand and wrapping it around both of them.

They’re swept away after that, tangled together like branches on a rushing river. Bare and panting, with their bodies and breath heating the air around them, they move against each other until they slip over the edge.

* * *

Harry awakens to the sound of snowploughs roaring down Columbus Avenue and a warm, slightly clammy body stirring against him.

He looks up at the blur of the ceiling and tries to orient himself as he emerges from a heavy sleep. He’s in Draco’s flat. In Draco’s bed. The light coming through the curtains isn’t very bright, either because it’s still early or because the storm is still blanketing the sky. The radiator in the corner of the room hisses and gurgles, but the air around Harry’s face still feels cold compared to the heat trapped by the duvet. And the hot press of Draco’s bare skin against his.

_Merlin_. It’s the first time Harry’s ever woken up next to someone. It’s both startling and wondrous, like a discovery. Like a new world.

Draco stretches and props himself up on one elbow to look down at Harry. His hair is mussed around his face and his pale eyes are bright.

“Sleep all right?”

Harry nods, still taking in all the things flooding his senses—the flush colouring Draco’s pale face, the smell of him, the way the hairs on their legs catch as Draco shifts closer.

Reaching over to run his thumb over the slight stubble on Harry’s jaw, Draco asks, “Regrets?”

Harry smiles. “Definitely not. You?”

Draco rolls over and lifts himself on top of Harry. “What do you think?”

Judging by what Harry feels, Draco is not having second thoughts at all.

Later, when the duvet has been kicked onto the floor and they’ve caught their breath, Draco’s stomach growls loudly.

“I think you should make me breakfast,” he declares.

Harry’s too fuzzy-headed from the endorphins for Draco’s words sink in. And he’s content to float along in this afterglow for a while longer before thinking about food or anything else.

“Why’s that?” he murmurs.

“Because I’ve been making you dinner. And because you’re the reason I burnt the chicken and ham pie last week.”

“What?” Harry laughs. “How was that my fault?”

“Because I saw you at the club the night before and I was so rattled that I couldn’t concentrate on cooking. I’ve never had such a disaster in the kitchen. So that’s why you should make me breakfast.”

Harry feels the playful mood drain out of him. His stomach twists with an almost-instinctive reaction to the suggestion. Draco’s silent beside him, watching. He can tell that Harry’s unsettled.

“Mal—Draco,” he begins, “When I say I don’t like cooking, I mean I actually… have horrible associations with doing it. _Really_ horrible. I can barely even make myself toast.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that’s what you meant.” Draco wraps his hand around Harry’s bicep and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I had to cook for my relatives when I was a kid,” Harry explains, even though Draco didn’t ask. For some reason, he wants to say it aloud, wants for this to exist somewhere besides his own memory. “My aunt was not very patient with me, and it, um, ended badly a lot of the time.”

Draco's quiet for a moment, finally grasping the awful truth that Harry's hinting at.

“Ended badly _how_?” Draco asks, his voice tight.

“Well, the best case scenario, if I messed up, was a wooden spoon to the back of my hand. Worst case was missing a meal or three. It depended on my aunt’s mood on that particular day.” Harry tries for a wry smile, but he can feel that it’s more of a grimace. He hears Draco draw a sharp breath.

“That’s terrible,” Draco says. He drapes his arm over Harry’s chest and wriggles closer until he rests his cheek on Harry’s shoulder. “So, now you…”

“Hear her voice in my head screaming at me whenever I try to cook something, yeah,” Harry finishes. “Even if it’s just for myself. And I don’t _want_ to hear that or even think about her or my uncle ever again, so I just find other ways to eat. Okay, I think that’s all I want to say about it.”

“All right.”

Draco sits up, looking into Harry’s eyes with a sombre expression. When he’s certain that Harry’s not upset, he turns and gets out of bed.

“I’ll cook, but I should warn you that I only know how to make scrambled eggs and toast. You can be in charge of the tea.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says, exhaling with relief. “I’ll just run upstairs for a quick shower.”

After leaning down to kiss him, Draco walks towards the bathroom. Harry finds his glasses, then his clothes. He feels light and loose-limbed, and despite the conversation they just had, Harry can’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable in his own skin. Centred.

Harry’s face stretches into a grin when he passes the bathroom and hears Draco whistling over the sound of the shower. He slips out the front door and bounds up the stairs two at a time.

* * *

Saturday night dinners and Thursday afternoons at the museum quickly extend to Friday nights at restaurants (always Harry’s treat) and Sundays walking around the city. Draco’s firm about having time to study, but he seems happy to spend all his free time with Harry. By the middle of March, not a day goes by without Harry dropping by Draco’s flat for a quick chat, at the very least. Then Draco starts coming upstairs after he finishes studying for the day, to spend the night in Harry’s bed and complain about his scratchy sheets.

The bitterness of winter softens, though the city isn’t showing many signs of spring yet besides the green points of the crocuses and daffodils sprouting, and the decreasing number of clothing layers needed to go outside. The buildings are still as drab in the daytime and the lights too bright at night. Harry finds that he likes being out in the morning best, especially on sunny days. He spends much of the time that Draco’s at school roaming Central Park, discovering new paths winding among the bare trees, new stone bridges, and even a tiny castle tucked into the woods.

“We should take a little trip to the sea,” Harry says one Sunday morning, looking at a map that he picked up at a visitors’ centre. He didn’t realise until recently that there were beaches right in the city, or that there was any water to see besides the brown rivers on either side of Manhattan and the grey-green harbour around its lower tip.

Draco calls from the kitchen, where he’s frying sausages and eggs, “It’s too cold. And wouldn’t we have to take a train to get there?”

“A couple of trains, then maybe a bus,” Harry answers, knowing this is probably going to doom the plan. Draco isn’t fond of public transport. He’d rather pay exorbitant amounts of money to take cabs everywhere, even when traffic is crawling through the streets and it would likely be faster to walk.

Draco emerges from the kitchen, a plate in each hand.

“Some other day, maybe. Move your maps.”

Harry complies silently and with a sinking heart. He’s running out of _other days_ before he needs to return to England. He and Draco haven’t talked about this yet, even though Harry’s already mentioned that his lease only goes until the end of April. Even though he’s been careful not to suggest any plans any further in the future than the following week. Harry can’t even bear to think about leaving, much less have a conversation about it, so he’s let the days slip by without bringing it up.

He slides his arms around Draco before they sit down, keeping them pressed together for a few moments, inhaling the scent of his damp hair. Draco looks concerned when he draws back.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for making breakfast,” Harry says. “You know, I could always go out and get pastries if you don’t feel like cooking.”

“You know I don’t mind. It’s good practice. Are you getting tired of eggs?”

“No, no. I just don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to do it all the time.”

Draco studies him for a minute, and Harry begins to feel like he ruined the mood of the morning with his heavy thoughts. He quickly sits down, so that the food doesn’t get cold on top of everything else.

“Do you really want to go to the beach today?” Draco asks, just before he cuts into a sausage. “I think it would be more enjoyable when it’s warmer, but if that’s what you want to do…”

“No, that’s okay. It was just an idea I thought of looking at the map. We can definitely do it some other time,” Harry assures him. “We can find something to do inside, if you’d rather.”

Draco raises a suggestive eyebrow, making Harry smile.

They’ve certainly been making good use of their time together indoors, no question. And it doesn’t feel reckless anymore, as it did the first time Draco invited Harry to stay. Every time they lie together in the dark, clothes scattered and hands and mouths eager, Harry feels the _rightness_ of it beneath the pleasure and exhilaration of the release.

And he feels the tight knot in his chest that he carried from England loosening a bit every day, too.

Right now, Harry doesn’t much care how they spend the day, as long as Draco is with him and happy.

“I was thinking we could watch a film upstairs. We could go and pick one out at the video store if none of the ones I have look interesting to you.”

“Sure,” Draco shrugs. “As long as it’s nothing too… violent or bloody. I don’t think I’d enjoy that.”

“Definitely nothing like that,” Harry says. “I feel exactly the same way.”

They exchange looks of understanding, and Harry reaches across the table to touch the back of Draco’s hand.

Draco’s reassuring smile is as warm and soothing as a Healing Charm to Harry’s aching heart.

* * *

Later that week, Draco finds the letter from Andromeda that Harry left scattered on his coffee table. When Harry arrives from the kitchen with two mugs of tea, he’s looking at the snaps of Teddy that she tucked into the envelope.

“He’s a Metamorphmagus?” Draco murmurs. “How extraordinary. I’m sorry, do you mind my looking at them?”

Harry sets down the mugs and looks over Draco’s shoulder. Teddy’s little tuft of turquoise from when he was a newborn is now a full head of hair that shifts colours with his moods. Andromeda’s photos show him toddling around the garden, full of bright-eyed curiosity.

“No, not at all,” Harry replies. In fact, he probably should have offered to share the pictures before now, both as a way to introduce Draco to his baby cousin and to broach the subject that Harry’s been dodging for too long. “I can’t believe how big he’s getting. He looks so much like his mum.”

“Nymphadora. Was she a Metamorphmagus, too? I didn’t know that. It’s a very rare ability.”

“She was, and she could do the most amazing things. Make herself completely unrecognisable or just change one feature. She was great at animal noses,” Harry chuckles.

Draco leans against his side when they sit on the sofa with Harry’s throw tucked around their legs.

“Will you tell me about her?” he asks.

Harry tells him everything he can remember about Tonks, and even though there are tears mixed in with his smiles, he feels lighter at the end of it.

Draco tries to apologise for upsetting him, but Harry just tilts his head against Draco’s shoulder and says, “I’m glad you asked.”

Without having it explained, Draco seems to understand that this is something that Harry needs, something he can do for him. He finds ways to ask about other people that Harry’s lost, usually when they’re curled up together in one of their beds. He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair while his head rests on Draco’s chest, listening to stories about Sirius and Remus and Fred. Listening to Harry’s regrets for the things he never got to say to them, and his remorse for not saving them.

Harry comes to realise that this simple, silent form of comfort is enough. When he saw people grieving after the battle, he wanted badly to offer them some wise, soothing words. Nothing ever came to mind besides _I’m so sorry_ , leaving Harry feeling helpless, inadequate. Now he knows that he did give them what they needed—he stayed and he listened, mourned with them for a little while. Even if he wasn’t able to erase their grief, the time and sympathetic ear he gave them was a small gift.

And what Draco’s giving Harry now is a gift that he’ll always be grateful for.

Harry asks Draco about the people he lost, one way or another, but he doesn’t want to talk about them. Maybe the memories of those people are tied up with things that Draco isn’t ready to discuss with Harry yet. The war, his behaviour at Hogwarts, the terrible choices he made when he was driven by both loyalty and terror.

He does like telling Harry about the years before Hogwarts, which he describes sardonically as “the best of everything, except for morals.” Harry hears about the colourful cast of tutors who came to the Manor, lavish holidays abroad, and the hijinks of Draco and his friends while their parents socialised and schemed in a drawing room downstairs.

Harry decides, after listening to these stories, that Draco is still struggling to reconcile the golden years of his early childhood with the dark times that came after. The loving and doting parents who cherished him above everything, with the people who dragged Draco into a living nightmare and failed to protect him.

So Harry tucks the duvet around them, makes a fresh pot of tea, and asks Draco for another story. He watches Draco’s expressive face light up when he laughs—not the cruel, mocking laugh Harry heard at Hogwarts, but a genuine one— and he can’t help but notice how pleased Draco is when Harry laughs, too. He’s captivated by this side of Draco that he’s never seen before, and sometimes he can barely wait until a tale is finished before he presses against Draco and kisses him until they’re breathless.

Every day, Harry feels the small ember of light within his chest warming him from the inside, breathed into life again by the moments of joy and desire reflected in Draco’s face, by the fierce pull of the thing that’s captured both of them.

A _Lumos_ , cast within him. A newborn star.

* * *

“Hurry, it’s cold out here,” Draco complains, wrapping his arms around himself.

Harry finally manages to pull his wand from what he thinks must be the tenth pocket of his jeans that he’s checked, looking for it. He had no idea that they had so many, but then he remembers that he’s been drinking and maybe his wand is actually just moving from pocket to pocket.

“Got it!” Harry says triumphantly, causing a tiny arc of green sparks to fly from the tip of his wand as he waves it. “You’re the one who didn’t want to wear a coat.”

“I didn’t want to worry about losing it at the club.” Draco grabs Harry’s wrist to stop him from making more sparks and reminds him to cast the unlocking charm instead. “I didn’t think I’d be freezing my balls off waiting for you to let us inside.”

“S’not freezing, it’s April. And I did offer you my coat.”

“Such a gentleman. Just open the door, for fuck’s sake.”

Harry gets the _Alohomora_ to work on the second try. He and Draco jostle each other trying to fit through the door at the same time, making Harry laugh and Draco glare at him.

“Hush, do you want to get in trouble?” Draco hisses, because Harry’s still giggling as they climb the stairs.

“What, like get detention? Do you see Mrs Norris?”

“Oh, my god, did you have a few extra drinks when I wasn’t looking? Just hurry, we’re almost there,” Draco groans, hauling Harry by the elbow up the last few steps and down the corridor.

When they finally get through the door, Harry braces a hand against the wall to kick off his shoes, an ingrained habit after so many weeks. His muscles feel slack from the alcohol and his embarrassing attempt (in Draco’s judgement) at dancing, which quickly devolved into snogging Draco halfway through every song. He’s tired, but wide awake now that they’re back in Draco’s flat. It still smells faintly of the beef stew that he cooked earlier. Harry wonders if he could convince Draco to heat up another bowl for him for a late-night snack.

Hmm, probably not, judging by the way Draco has already stripped the coat off Harry’s shoulders and is now backing him against the wall, with cold hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. Harry tilts his head to let Draco press his mouth to the tendon that runs down the side of his neck.

“Was you, you know,” Draco murmurs between kisses. “Seems like it’s always _you_.”

“What was?” Harry’s just wriggled his fingers into the waistband of Draco’s trousers and he’s considering whether to take them off here or wait until they get to the bedroom.

Draco huffs against Harry’s ear. “My _big gay epiphany_. When I was fourteen.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Merlin, I hated you so much for it. Drove me mad.”

Harry twists sideways and looks at Draco. “You don’t hate me now, though.”

“Course not,” Draco grins, pulling his hand out from beneath Harry’s shirt to tangle it in his hair. He leans in for a lingering kiss. “It was just that… of all the people I knew, _you_ had to be the one I wanted. The same person who was always knocking me off kilter every time I thought I found my footing.”

Whatever Draco’s talking about is just out of reach of Harry’s tipsy comprehension, but he _wants_ to understand. And anyway, he likes hearing Draco talk, likes the deep thrum of his voice close to his ear, especially when they’re _starting things_. There’s something about the sound that runs like an electric current over Harry’s skin.

“What do you mean?” Harry asks. “I didn’t knock you down that much, did I?”

Draco laughs. “I mean figuratively, you numpty. Every time I thought I was going to come out on top, every time I thought I was about to take my rightful place in the order of things, you came along and hit me, _bam_ , like a Disarming Spell. I’m surprised you didn’t walk around flashing red light like one. Mister _Expelliarmus_.”

“Stunners are red, too,” Harry says, remembering the red neon sign that startled him. “Maybe you just think I’m _stunning_.”

Draco gently shoves Harry, who’s giggling again at his own pun, towards the bedroom. “Enough talking.”

“You’re the one who was doing the talking,” Harry protests, but Draco cuts him off with a kiss before he can say any more.

He tastes like gin, with a bit of the citrus twist that floated in his glass. The image of him at the club rises behind Harry’s closed eyes. The colourful lights flashing on his hair and his sharp eyes fixed on Harry as he raised his drink to his mouth. He was spellbinding, gorgeous.

Harry clings to his shoulders as they make their way, step by distracted step, to Draco’s room. Neither of them stop to cast a light, too intent on getting each others’ clothes off, on finding the most sensitive places to touch with hands fumbling from impatience and alcohol.

Draco’s not cold anymore. His skin is hot against Harry’s when they land on the bed, and his open mouth is even hotter when it moves over Harry’s body. Harry’s trembling fingers stroke the silken strands tickling his thighs while Draco takes him to his climax. As soon as Draco sits up, Harry follows him, throwing one arm around his neck to pull their mouths together, reaching with the other hand to make Draco moan into the kiss, then cry out.

They rest their heads on each other’s shoulders, nudging soft kisses onto throats and collarbones while they catch their breaths. _Brilliant_ , Harry thinks, only realising he’s said it out loud when Draco laughs and pushes him back onto the pillows.

“I’m glad you think so,” Draco smirks, reaching for his wand to cast cleaning charms over both of them. He then stretches out next to Harry, running his fingers through his damp hair with a contented sigh.

Harry turns onto his side and watches him in the bit of light from the lamp that Draco left on in the sitting room before they left for the club. The sight of him—lips slightly swollen, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm—makes Harry’s heart clench. Soon he’s going to have to rip himself away from it all. This city, this bed, this man beside him, so unexpected and unexpectedly dear. Harry’s eyes begin to sting, and he quickly rolls over and buries his face in the pillow.

“What in Salazar’s name is the matter?” Draco asks, close to Harry’s ear.

“I want to stay,” Harry says, in a muffled wail.

Draco barks a laugh. “You idiot, I always let you stay. Have I ever sent you back to sleep in your own bed? I had no idea that you’d be a weepy drunk.”

“No, I mean I want to stay in New York, but I can’t! I don’t want to leave.”

Harry feels hot tears soaking into the pillowcase. He can’t bear to look at Draco, who’s silent now that he understands. Can’t bear to see if he’s shocked or sad, or even angry that Harry hasn’t told him this before.

“Do you _have_ to leave?” Draco asks quietly after a moment. “Can’t you extend your lease, or even find a different flat if you need to? I suppose you could always stay with me until you—”

“It’s not that,” Harry says, curling up in misery. “I promised myself I’d go home for Teddy’s birthday. I’d be a shit godfather if I missed it, wouldn’t I? His first one?”

“Well, then have your visit and come back.”

Harry doesn’t reply right away. How does he explain to Draco that only something desperately important could make him leave New York now? That he’d give anything to be two places at once, so that his heart wouldn’t be torn like this. He struggles to breath through the sob that’s rising from his chest.

Draco slips a warm hand into Harry’s hair. He’s waiting. Waiting for an explanation, or maybe bracing himself for what Harry’s about to tell him. Keeping his eyes closed, Harry turns his head so he’s facing Draco at least, even if he can’t bring himself to look yet.

“I’ve already been away for over three months. Three and a half. Teddy’s changed so much in that time. Starting to walk and saying words. I’ve missed all that. I’d feel terrible if I missed any more. I promised… I _promised_ them, Draco!”

Draco pulls Harry into his arms and lets him cry onto his bare chest. It’s not the first time Draco’s seen him cry lately—it was inevitable while Harry was sharing his memories of the people he lost, releasing the pool of grief that was drowning him. But these tears aren’t only for himself. Harry knows that this conversation, this sudden announcement of his departure, must be hurting Draco, too. He feels awful.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was trying not to think about it.”

“When do you have to go?” Draco asks. His voice sounds rough, choked.

“His birthday is on the nineteenth. I should… get a Portkey for the day before.”

Another week. That’s all they have left. Harry throws his leg over Draco’s trying to link them together, trying to hold on. He can hear Draco’s heart thudding beneath him. It calms him and soothes the ache in his own chest, just a little.

Just before he drifts off, Draco’s voice reaches Harry, barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t think I’m ever coming home, Harry, as much as I wish I could. God, I wish I could. Will you come back and visit me?”

Harry tries to nod and make a hum of agreement, but he’s not sure if he does it before sleep overtakes him.

* * *

Draco insists on going to the beach on Harry’s last full day in New York.

They take two trains, rumbling beneath Manhattan, then out into the morning sunshine on the elevated tracks that snake through Brooklyn, to Brighton Beach. Draco keeps giving Harry pointed looks as the train crawls from station to station, to remind him that he rejected the idea of taking a cab. Harry just laces their fingers together and finds things to point out through the window. Brooklyn’s endless rows of low-rise buildings are like a sea in themselves, spreading as far as the eye can see along the grid of streets.

The real ocean is just a block away from the train station, behind some apartment towers and a line of trees, then across a wide boardwalk. The scent of saltwater fills the air, carried by the same wind that’s ruffling the surface of the deep blue water. It’s a mild spring day, but the air off the ocean carries a chill that Harry can feel on his face and see in the pink of Draco’s ears and cheeks.

They stay on the boardwalk at first, strolling towards the distant roller coasters and Ferris wheels further down the beach. For lunch they find a place to buy hotdogs, which Draco gamely eats, abandoning his usual insistence on eating _proper food_.

Harry watches him, windblown and ruddy, with a smile. He wishes he had a camera to capture this, the latest of all the glittering, miraculous moments that the two of them have strung together in the past two months. Draco Malfoy, eating a hotdog with him, looking at Harry like he’s trying to memorise him.

After they finish eating, Harry insists on taking off their shoes and crossing the sand to the water. What’s the point of coming all this way and not standing in the sea? Harry asks. They stand side by side, watching the light glint off the water. He knows they’re facing south—the sun is in front of them—but Harry can’t help imagining that he’s looking across the sea to England, an unfathomable distance away. A place he’ll be tomorrow.

“My feet are getting numb,” Draco says. “Have we savoured the Atlantic enough?”

Harry laughs, “I reckon we have. Unless you fancy a swim instead.”

“I’m not terribly fond of hypothermia, thank you.” Draco looks around, checking to make sure no one’s watching them, then slips his arm around Harry’s waist. “Are you enjoying your beach day? I’d propose getting ice cream, but I think something warm might be a wiser choice.”

Harry leans into him. “It’s perfect. Thanks for agreeing to this. Maybe we can find a place for tea back towards the station.”

Draco makes a disgusted sound. “If you think I’m going to drink the dreadful swill that Americans call tea, out of a paper cup no less, you are gravely mistaken. But you may buy me some hot cocoa, before we go home.”

“All right,” Harry says, but that’s all he can manage before his throat starts closing up with emotion, reminded that the day is passing much too quickly. He pulls away from Draco with a grim smile, then starts back toward the boardwalk over the damp sand. Draco trudges after him.

They take their time strolling back down the boardwalk, now more crowded with people walking and biking and pushing prams. Harry buys Draco a hot cocoa from a coffee shop in the shadow of the elevated train tracks. He gets a coffee for himself, enjoying the warmth of it seeping into his palms through the cup more than the drink itself.

With regret, they both acknowledge that it’s time to go home. It’s mid-afternoon and Draco promised to make shepherd’s pie for dinner. “ _It seems only fitting,_ ” he told Harry this morning, with a wistful smile that wrenched away another little piece of Harry’s heart.

The train gets more crowded as they approach Manhattan. Draco presses close to Harry, letting their fingers brush against each other beneath the hems of their coat sleeves. Harry turns his eyes away from the windows when the train descends into the tunnel. Draco’s watching him again. Absorbing him with those grey eyes.

Harry holds his gaze while they rock slightly with the motion of the train. They ignore the shifting of the people around them when they arrive at a station, and barely hear the snippets of music—a saxophone, a violin—drifting in through the open doors of the train. They both seem to want to say something without speaking, understand without needing to hear any words. Trying to create their own kind of Legilimency without magic.

Harry wishes he could know what Draco’s thinking. He’s been quiet all week, as if he’s trying to face Harry’s departure with stoicism. Or maybe he resolved not to make this any harder for Harry than it already is, by keeping his emotions carefully in check when they’re together.

Draco has more self-control now than when they were kids, but Harry’s known him long enough to read the subtle tells: the tension in his jaw, his unusual silence, and—especially in this moment—sadness in his eyes.

Merlin, what Harry wouldn’t give to be able to wrap himself around Draco and whisper reassurances in his ear. To kiss him breathless and make him laugh in wonder at this unlikely, precious thing that they’ve forged together, through snow storms and late-night taxi rides, post-coital conversations and a fifty-year-old recipe book.

Harry lets his eyes wander over Draco’s face to take in the features he’s come to know so well. He’s traced that sharp jawline with his fingertip and kissed those lips more times than he can count. He sees the same pale hair that fans out over dark sheets and the same pale skin that’s always so warm beneath his own lips.

Suddenly, it’s too much. Harry ducks his head and shuts his eyes. _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow._ The train wheels clicking over the tracks seem to drum the word into Harry’s mind, and it hits him like a Stunner. The red flash that’s bright as neon and stays burnt into his retinas when he closes his eyes.

Harry’s in love.

He’s in love with Draco.

He reaches up to grip a handful of Draco’s coat sleeve just to have that tiny bit of connection. The station where they need to transfer to a different train must be coming up soon, so Harry tries to focus on pulling himself together. Draco asks him, in a quiet murmur, if he’s feeling sick. He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to release Draco’s coat.

But tomorrow… Harry promises himself that tomorrow he won’t be letting go of Draco. He’s going to find a way to hold onto him. For the first time in almost a year, Harry feels his fighting spirit come back.

And Draco Malfoy is definitely worth fighting for.

* * *

The next morning, Draco comes with Harry to the Portkey Terminal in Lower Manhattan.

He offers to pay for a cab, but Harry worries about getting stuck in traffic, so they head out in the rain to walk to the nearest Apparition Point. Harry pulls the suitcase on wheels that he bought in London, bumping over pavement, while Draco holds a black brolly over their heads. It’s too small for two people. They’re definitely going to need Drying Charms as soon as they get back inside.

“Good thing I didn’t buy lots of souvenirs while I was here,” Harry says, just to break the silence. “I would have needed another suitcase. It was a tight squeeze with my new jumpers and the presents for Teddy.”

Draco hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t comment. Harry continues, determined to get a smile out of him at least.

“How do you like your new throw blanket?” he asks, grinning in victory when Draco makes a contemptuous sound.

“ _Your_ throw blanket, you mean? The red and green tartan one that clashes with every single thing in my sitting room?”

“I’m pretty sure I gave it to you,” Harry says firmly. He presses the button for the pedestrian light when they reach Central Park West.

“And I’m _pretty sure_ I’m just holding it for you until you decide you want it back.” While they’re waiting for the light to change, Draco takes the opportunity to give Harry a wry smile. “And don’t tell me _again_ how much you paid for that thing. It won’t change the fact that it’s garish. Even McGonagall wouldn’t be caught with something like that in her house.”

“I had no idea you thought about her decorating tastes so much,” Harry quips. “Do you think she collects cat figurines? Tartan tea towels?”

Draco laughs again, but the walk signal saves him from answering. Harry’s satisfied. He nudges Draco’s shoulder with his as they step off the kerb.

They cross to the park and follow the wet paths to a small stone building hidden in a cluster of trees. Harry lifts his suitcase and carries it around the back of the building and finds his wand. Then he holds out his arm for Draco, who takes it firmly in his grip, so they can Apparate away.

The Portkey Terminal is almost empty. It’s Sunday morning and, according to the sign above the doorway to the Departures area, the next outbound Portkey after the London one isn’t for two more hours. Harry leads them to a row of chairs near the windows overlooking the small park that surrounds City Hall.

He laces his fingers with Draco’s after they sit down, willing himself to be strong. Merlin, it was so different landing here in January. The shabby upholstery and carpet of the waiting area are the same, and the coffee cart in the corner of the waiting area is still there (and closed again, as it was on the morning Harry arrived). He was such a mess—sick with guilt over running away and vaguely resentful of all the people who were coping better than he was. Even Ron, who’s bone-deep grief was eased by his blossoming relationship with Hermione.

Now Harry knows that leaving England was one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

Too soon, a MACUSA employee pokes his head through the Departures doorway. “London Portkey passengers, check-in begins in five minutes. Please have your wands and passports ready!”

Draco grips Harry’s hand so hard it hurts. Then he gets to his feet and tugs Harry up with him. Harry’s afraid for a moment that Draco’s going to lead him to the door right away, to rush their goodbye the way that Sirius did. Instead he rounds on Harry and pulls him into his arms.

Harry takes a deep breath. “I’ll write to you in a couple days, tell you all about Teddy’s birthday.”

“Okay,” Draco whispers, squeezing Harry tighter.

“Maybe I’ll send you some Chocolate Frogs, too. You said you missed having them, remember?”

Draco doesn’t answer. Harry feels him shudder, and then shudder again.

He’s crying.

“Hey, I’m going to come back and visit, okay?” Harry says, quickly, knowing he only has a few minutes left to soothe him. “I promise, Draco. I’ll come for your birthday. Draco…”

He’s shaking even more now, his face tucked against Harry’s neck and dripping tears into the collar of his coat.

Harry strokes his palm over the back of Draco’s head. _This_ is what he’s been holding in all week, the emotions that he didn’t want Harry to see. Harry never doubted that they were there—Draco’s unhappiness was obvious—but he never expected Draco to break down like this, to cling to Harry like they’re never going to see each other again. Desperate to reassure him, Harry shushes him until he knows Draco’s listening.

“Draco, I’m not letting this go. I love you, all right? We’re going to find a way to make it work.” Harry pauses, feeling Draco stiffen against him. He worries for a moment that he’s confessed too much, too soon. He starts to rub Draco’s back instead of saying anything more.

“Say it again,” Draco says hoarsely, after a few heartbeats.

Harry’s breath catches. “I love you.”

Draco makes a soft sound, almost a whimper, and then he crushes Harry’s ribs with his arms.

“Again.”

“I love you, Draco.” Harry squirms and wheezes a small laugh. “You’re going to squeeze me to death, you git.”

Draco releases him and ducks his head while he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his face. When he looks up, he’s red and blotchy. Harry kisses him anyway.

“I’ll be back before you know it, yeah?” Harry says. “I’ll bring my broom this time so we can go flying on that warded pitch in Central Park. And I’ll take you out for your birthday, anywhere you’d like. The fanciest restaurant in New York, if you want.”

Draco smiles weakly. “What if I want another hotdog?”

“Not bloody likely,” Harry scoffs.

He wraps his arms around Draco again until they announce that the London Portkey is ready. He gives Draco one last, lingering kiss, but the lump in his throat keeps him silent when they draw apart. Draco is the one to speak—just a rough whisper—cupping Harry’s cheek.

“I love you, too.”

Harry smiles and takes hold of Draco’s wrist to kiss his palm. Then he tears himself away and carries his suitcase towards the Departures door. Draco returns his wave just before he walks through it.

The MACUSA worker examines Harry’s wand and passport to confirm his Portkey reservation. After he records the information, he directs Harry to the platform where the other passengers are waiting. Thankfully, there are only two of them, a middle-aged American couple. Harry takes his place beside the pedestal where the Portkey will be set to activate. He tries not to think of Draco walking back to his flat, alone in the rain.

“We’re going on vacation. A week in London for our wedding anniversary,” the woman tells Harry.

“Ah, lovely,” he replies. He sees the terminal worker approaching with their Portkey, a tennis racket with half the strings missing.

“And you?” the witch asks. “Just going for a visit?”

Harry tightens his grip on his suitcase and takes hold of the curved edge of the racket.

“I’m going home,” he says. “But I think it’s going to be okay.”

* * *

**Epilogue**

Harry rushes through Diagon, silently cursing the weekend crowds. The August sun is hot on his head and shoulders. He’s probably going to be a sweaty mess by the time he reaches his destination, goddamn it. After narrowly avoiding a collision with a pair of kids who are in even more of a hurry than he is, Harry steps into the cool, humid air of the flower shop.

_Oh, hell_ , he thinks, looking around at the buckets of flowers. He has no idea what to choose. The shop clerk is watching Harry with her mouth slightly open, obviously recognising him.

“I’m sorry to ask, but I’m in a hurry and I need a bouquet in the next—” Harry glances at his wristwatch. “—three minutes or I’m utterly buggered.”

The clerk’s jaw drops even further, but then she squares her shoulders. “I’ll do my best. What would you like?”

“Merlin, I don’t know anything about flowers. Something kind of romantic... but not roses! That would be over the top, you know? Romantic and pretty. And _fast_ , please.”

Bloody hell, this is probably going to be all over the _Prophet_ tomorrow, Harry thinks as he watches the witch pluck stems from several buckets. He reminds himself that he already decided not to worry about what the papers write or what the wizarding world at large thinks of him.

Harry’s made his choice and anyone who doesn’t like it can sod right off.

He fishes a few Galleons from his pocket and tells the clerk to keep the change after she hands him the bouquet. Whatever she chose is colourful and fragrant, though Harry barely glances inside the cone of paper. It’ll have to do.

Back out in the street, the crowds are even worse. Harry wonders if everyone in Magical Britain has decided to go to the shops today, just to hinder him. He’s tempted to Disapparate right here in the middle of the Alley, rules be damned. Instead, he quickens his pace and sets his expression to _don’t you dare get in my way._

Cradling the bouquet against his chest, he detours around a bunch of kids clustered in front of the window display at Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. It’s a scale model of Hogwarts, with tiny explosions of fireworks erupting from the windows and towers at regular intervals. McGonagall’s going to have her hands full in a couple weeks, judging by the queue just to get into the shop.

Harry’s impatience darkens to something more grim. The Weasleys weren’t thrilled—to say the least—with the news he shared last Sunday. They all seem to think he’s daft at best, if not making a terrible mistake. Harry tried to take their reactions in stride. He expected them to be wary. It cast a small cloud over his happiness, but he stood his ground and made it clear that he wasn’t going to listen to anyone try to dissuade him.

When Hermione, Ron, and the rest of the Weasleys saw that Harry returned from New York much calmer and happier than when he’d left, they finally started to accept that Harry needs to do things at his own pace. That he has many years of grief and trauma to work through before he’ll be ready to decide on a career. Harry was able to enjoy being home much more after that, spending time with Teddy and exploring London the way he did New York. Even Hermione stopped mentioning application deadlines for training programmes and apprenticeships.

Now Harry worries that his most recent—and most shocking, to their ears—decision will undo the progress he’s made in getting his friends and family to trust his judgement.

His destination comes into view at last, and all his worries are forgotten beneath the anticipation that’s surging in his chest. Harry looks at his watch again and finds that he made it with only a couple of minutes to spare. _Thank Merlin._ He casts a couple of cleaning charms over himself and tries to smooth down his hair as he rushes down the short corridor and through the archway marked “Arrivals.”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Harry leans against the back wall of the waiting area. He keeps his eyes fixed on the smaller doorway across the room that leads to the place where travellers arrive and passports are stamped. The paper wrapped around the flowers crinkles, reminding Harry not to squeeze them so tightly.

Any minute now.

There. He hears the Portkey arrive and the booming voice of the Ministry Customs officer saying, “Welcome to Great Britain, London Terminal. Please present your travel documents with your wands at the desk to your left.”

Harry’s almost bouncing off the wall, he’s so excited. And getting more impatient by the minute. If there was a large group using the Portkey, it could take twenty minutes for everyone to be cleared by Customs. The other people in the waiting area gather in front of the doorway, blocking Harry’s view, but he forces himself to hang back.

Every couple of minutes, a few travellers emerge from the doorway to be greeted by friends and family before exiting towards Diagon. After the third or fourth time this happens, Harry begins to feel anxious. What if Draco missed the Portkey? What if he changed his mind about coming back to England?

Harry doesn’t think he would. He worked so hard on his coursework, studied non-stop for his exams at the end of June. And it paid off. Top marks on every test, he wrote to Harry proudly. They celebrated with a long weekend at a rented beach house on Long Island, during which they spent very little time at the beach.

Draco didn’t tell Harry that he applied for Healer training in London until after he was accepted. That letter came two weeks ago, just as Harry was resigning himself to a long-distance relationship and monthly Portkey reservations. A few days together, here and there, that passed too quickly in a blur of sex and long conversations and sleeplessness. After reading the letter with the news, Harry needed to lie down on his sofa and read it three more times, just to make sure it was real. That Draco was truly coming back to England.

Two more people come through the doorway and head straight for the corridor. The waiting area is empty now. Heart pounding in his chest, Harry decides to peek through the door to see if anyone’s still going through Customs. He’s halfway across the room when Draco comes into view, pulling a trunk behind him.

Harry strides forward, remembering at the last minute to hold the bouquet at arm’s length so that it doesn’t get crushed between them. He slides the other arm around Draco’s waist and draws him close. Inhales the scent of his cologne, feels the familiar brush of Draco’s hair against his cheek.

_Finally._

“Hi,” Harry says. He can feel himself grinning. “Welcome home.”

Draco returns the hug but pulls back quickly, glancing around the room. He accepts the flowers with a bemused look. “Thank you, they’re lovely. And here I thought we were going to be discreet.”

“I’m actually showing a lot of restraint right now, I’ll have you know,” Harry laughs. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“You’re certain you don’t mind putting me up? I could get a hotel room until I find a flat, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want that?”

Draco gives him a pointed look as they enter the corridor. “I’d understand if you—”

“Wanted to sneak around? Or hide you?” Harry stops walking. “I don’t, Draco. I told Hermione and Ron about us when I came back to London, and I told the rest of the Weasleys last weekend. They all know you’re going to be staying with me for a bit.”

He throws caution to the wind and steps forward to kiss Draco soundly.

“I should have guessed you’d be a Gryffindor about this,” Draco murmurs. “I wish I could say I’m as ready to face it as you are. You know they’re not going to be any easier on me now than they were last summer, don’t you?”

He looks towards the door that leads to Diagon with a slight frown, as if he thinks there might be an angry mob outside waiting for him to show his face. Waiting to judge him again for the things he did.

Harry reaches out to give Draco’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Knowing how much courage it took for Draco to come back to England makes Harry even more determined to stand by him.

“It’ll be okay. Let’s just go home,” Harry says. “I cooked for you.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “You did? What did you make?”

“Ham sandwiches. And crisps. Are you surprised?”

Draco laughs, looking very fond in a way that makes Harry eager to get back to Grimmauld Place.

“I don’t think you’ll ever stop surprising me, Harry.”

They step forward together, crossing the threshold into the August sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> There really is a Quidditch Pitch in Central Park. You can find it on Google Maps near the corner of West 87th Street and Central Park West.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Visit me on [Tumblr](https://xanthippe74.tumblr.com/).
> 
> * * *
> 
> 💋 This work is part of the Taste of Smut Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to the five senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight. 
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this work, please do shower our content creators with kudos and comments! 💌
> 
> [Please check out the fest's tumblr for more posts and updates](https://tasteofsmut.tumblr.com/)


End file.
